


First Foot

by annejumps



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Bottom!Eames, M/M, New Year's Eve
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-31
Updated: 2013-12-31
Packaged: 2018-01-06 21:36:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,677
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1111783
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/annejumps/pseuds/annejumps
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Just some New Year's Eve feelings :)</p>
            </blockquote>





	First Foot

Eames was almost as surprised as anyone else would have been to find himself in Arthur’s secret dwelling in the snowy woods of upstate New York. It was an honest-to-God log cabin, perched on a mountainside, modestly sized but beautifully appointed, clean and neat like Arthur himself.

Or how Arthur usually was, anyway. In the few days they’d been here, Arthur had stopped shaving, stopped slicking back his hair, and stopped putting in his contacts (he was wearing glasses instead). Eames was mildly scandalized and very turned on.

They were here because Arthur had expressed a need to get out of the city for a bit at the end of December. In private after the last job they’d done together ended, with typical abruptness he’d asked Eames if he wanted to come with him, and Eames, being no fool, accepted, sure any other plans he’d had for the holidays weren’t that important anyway. Visions of Arthur fucking him before a stoked fireplace danced in his head as they took Arthur’s rental car north to the Catskills.

Unfortunately, said fireplace required firewood, which Eames had to chop. At first, he basked in Arthur’s praise for what a manly figure he cut at chopping; after a while, however, he’d had enough, at which point Arthur took over, grim-faced and panting as he worked. Eames rewarded him with a blowjob.

Arthur woke up early -- or at least first -- every morning, after extricating himself successfully from Eames’ clinging grip and the warm bed (sometimes it took two or three tries) and went to make coffee and start breakfast. He had a small workout room just off the kitchen, where he ran on his treadmill, and subsequently showered. 

Eames always then emerged with bedhead to a full spread and a clean, flushed Arthur, sipping coffee and often typing on his laptop or talking on the phone. One morning he’d been speaking fluent Hebrew to someone and Eames had listened with his chin resting in his hand, enthralled and inwardly marveling at this new secret, breakfast forgotten for the time being.

“I understood most of that, you know,” Eames remarked after Arthur ended the call. He spread marmalade on his toast.

“Pretend that you didn’t,” Arthur suggested, typing furiously on his laptop.

“Consider it done.” 

The workout room and living room overlooked a lake, with a small deck just outside for warmer times. Now, though, everything was encased in a thick layer of snow, which did make for a nice view. Eames had work to do as well, and he liked to spread out on the sofa and look through his papers, making notes, trying to find holes in his plans. The fireplace heated the room quite well, often making it warm enough that Eames stripped down to his undershirt and took off his socks. Once after tossing said clothes aside he’d looked up frowning over his reading glasses to catch Arthur staring at him, a hot look in his hooded eyes, and before Eames could do more than look startled and set down his book, Arthur was on him.

While it was true that Arthur was more relaxed while not actually on a job, he also made less of an effort to hide it when he was annoyed or irritated. Which was really saying something. Eames had stayed with Arthur in hotels before, always on jobs, first as simply a co-worker and then as something beyond that, though they never really discussed what exactly that was. Here and now, Eames felt almost as if he were glimpsing something far too intimate: Arthur leaving his clothes on the floor, Arthur absently scratching his balls, Arthur quietly singing to himself as he rinsed the dishes. He kept having the urge to warn Arthur to stop, to not reveal so much, but he couldn’t bring himself to actually do it.

Arthur checked the perimeter of the property every evening and checked the motion detector lights as well, making sure the windows and doors were locked properly. He’d of course brought his weapons; that wasn’t unusual. But Eames started wondering if, though Arthur never said, Arthur was in fact hiding out. He decided this on the third day they were there. This meant Eames was no doubt meant to serve as the muscle, to back Arthur up when needed, and for a shag in between threats. All right. He could deal with that -- he’d certainly been in a cabin in the middle of nowhere for worse reasons -- but it still seemed, he often reflected, that Arthur ought to be less casual than he was being. 

He felt this particularly keenly on the mornings when Arthur slept in a bit, and drooled on Eames’ back as he lightly snored, a leg wedged firmly between Eames’. Arthur always apologized and wiped up his drool, but the clinging and the drooling made Eames feel funny in a way he didn’t want to examine too closely. (He told himself he clung to Arthur because Arthur was preternaturally warm, and it was December.)

Arthur kept himself busy throughout the day -- making calls in Hebrew and French, reeling off notes on his little voice recorder as he ran on his treadmill, reading and writing emails. Eames didn’t enjoy constantly immersing himself in work; he preferred to intensely hit the big concepts, go over them from every angle he could conjure, and then retreat to refresh his mind. Arthur, too, took breaks, usually with him: they played cards, made the evening meals together, and sat and talked. They went for walks outside and ended up building shapes in the snow, until Eames felt just too cold, and when they went inside Arthur would make them real hot chocolate.

There were no signs of anyone having come near the cabin; whoever it was Arthur was avoiding, they were either not clever enough, or not interested enough to really track him down. Eames was certainly fine with that state of affairs. But just in case, he, too, kept alert. Not quite as much as Arthur, who was essentially a Doberman in human form at times, but there was no sense in making stupid mistakes. 

The vague tension was getting a wee bit wearying, though, with the limited amount of things to do, even if sex was on that list. Eames sometimes muttered that he’d like to get out and see a movie, go out to eat, and not have to chop wood to keep from freezing to death, but Arthur just set his mouth in a grim line at Eames’ complaints, brow furrowed. Eames reminded himself they only had a few days more to go, most likely, and if he could live in Yusuf’s spare room for a month and a half he could certainly deal with this.

For whatever reason, it wasn’t until New Year’s Eve that they really broke out the alcohol. Vodka, specifically. Eames’ constitution was no longer what it once was, and therefore he didn’t allow himself to get as drunk as he would have ages ago. But he still had quite a bit, as did Arthur, and in short order they were recalling a particularly wild and ridiculous architect they’d once worked with, and rolling on the floor. Arthur pinned him on his back, grinning, and over his shoulder Eames’ eye caught the clock, and he remembered something from his childhood.

“Arthur, it’s five ‘til.”

Arthur looked to where Eames was looking. “It is.”

“I want you to do something for me.”

“What is it?” Arthur sat astride Eames’ hips.

“Well.” Eames cleared his throat. “When I was a wee lad, my Scottish granny told me about something called ‘First Foot.’” 

Arthur nodded, arching a brow. Eames continued. “On New Year’s Eve, it was considered good luck for a tall, dark-haired man to be the first person to enter a house at the stroke of midnight.”

Arthur chuckled. “Eames. I’m not going outside.”

Eames pouted. “Arthur. Honestly.”

Laughing, Arthur shook his head. “No! It’s fucking cold, Eames.”

“Well, it was your idea to hide out in the middle of bloody Antarctica here. I’ve spent enough time helping you avoid whoever-it-is I think I deserve some indulgence, love.”

Arthur looked at him for a long time, and finally blinked. “You think I’m hiding out?”

“You’re not?”

Slowly, Arthur shook his head. “No. I wanted to get out of the city for a while and thought I’d invite you on a….” Trailing off for a moment, he clenched his jaw briefly, and finished. “...Romantic vacation.” Eames watched his ears turn pink. Arthur winced. “I guess I failed in that.”

“Oh, spectacularly. Spectacularly.” Eames sat up a bit and pulled Arthur down a tad to kiss him. “But d’you know what would salvage things and make it all terribly romantic?”

“If I went outside and came in at the stroke of midnight?”

“If you went outside and came in at the stroke of midnight. Precisely. Go on then, get into your greatcoat, there’s a love.”

Arthur stood, found his winter things at the door, and began putting them on. Eames followed. “If you thought this was a hideout, that explains why you kept complaining,” Arthur mused.

“Yes, yes, I’ve terrible manners,” Eames agreed, placing Arthur’s scarf around his neck. “Although, arguably, I might still have complained if I’d known all along.”

“Don’t you think I’d inform you and keep you abreast of the situation if I needed your help hiding out?”

“Well, at first I thought you just wanted to take me with you for shagging purposes, so you wouldn’t get bored. Then I saw you checking the perimeters and the doors and all, and deduced you must be avoiding someone and just hadn’t chosen to fill me in yet.”

“Eames, how many times have you been on jobs with me where I’m point? What I do is just common sense. We’re in the middle of nowhere, I’m just taking basic precautions.”

“Hush, Arthur, and go outside,” Eames said. Kissing Arthur firmly, he opened the door. 

Arthur glanced at the clock, and huffed. “Only a few minutes,” Eames soothed. Arthur trudged out onto the porch, and Eames closed the door.

He could hear Arthur pacing and muttering to himself. When the clock struck twelve, Eames opened the door, pulling Arthur in and shutting it, wrapping his arms around him and warming him up again, kissing him. In the very far distance, he could hear the muffled bang of fireworks.

“Missed you,” he murmured, grinning, and Arthur pulled back, giving him a skeptical look. “I didn’t really,” he teased. “Was starting to be glad I was rid of you, to be honest. Go back out again, won’t you?” Arthur kissed him to shut him up, and soon enough the chill in the air and in Arthur was gone.

Arthur’s coat soon was thrown over the arm of a chair, his hat and scarf dropped on the floor, his boots on their sides by the door. As he got his jeans off, he grinned at Eames. “You know,” he said, voice low, “I’ve heard it’s also good luck if the first man to fuck you after midnight is a dark and handsome one. ‘First Dick.’”

“Well, I believe I said ‘tall and dark-haired,’” Eames began, but Arthur, having removed his own shirt, came toward Eames and pulled his off, and kissed him, deep and probing.

“It seems I’ll be having a great deal of luck this year,” Eames remarked, breathless.

“Good deal of dick, too, if you play your cards right,” Arthur said, adjusting his erection where it hung heavy in his boxer-briefs.

“I can indeed play my cards right,” Eames said, as Arthur caught him round the shoulders and directed him downward, a broad hand at the middle of his back pushing him toward the sofa. He rested his elbows on it. 

Arthur fucked him bent over the sofa; nothing they hadn’t done before, but it was because they were drunk, no doubt, that when Eames went to spread his palm on the cushion for support when Arthur really started nailing his prostate, Arthur reached to cover Eames’ hand with his own, and Eames spread his fingers to fit Arthur’s between them.

Eames knew the truth, though. Neither of them were all that drunk. He felt every cool kiss Arthur pressed to his shoulders and back for minutes afterward, when Arthur got them to their feet and got them to bed, tipsy and shivering, after cleaning them up.

Eames woke up very warm and with a headache, despite not having had much vodka, at least not compared to what he’d once been able to metabolize. Groaning softly, he shifted back against Arthur, who muttered something into his neck, then groaned as well. They lapsed into silence for a bit, until Arthur said, voice hoarse and low, “I’ll make us some coffee,” and heaved himself out of bed, pulling on his pajama trousers.

Eames dozed off again; he awoke when Arthur came in bearing a tray with coffee, glasses of water, aspirin, and toast. They’d had some water and aspirin the night before when they’d started drinking, of course, but they were getting too old for this sort of thing.

Arthur sat up and sipped his coffee; Eames leaned against him. Once he felt better, he pressed a kiss to Arthur’s shoulder. “Romantic vacation, eh.”

Arthur became very interested in the contents of his coffee cup.

“You wanted to take me on a romantic vacation,” Eames pursued.

Arthur muttered something into the cup.

“It’s all right, you know. It makes sense now. I’m only sorry I didn’t realize it sooner,” Eames remarked. “I’m quite up for romantic gestures coming from you, all things considered.” Eames felt muzzy, affectionate, delightfully warm, and relieved his headache was fading away. “I wouldn’t have thought that years ago when you were shouting at me about those documents I was late getting to you on the Markusson job, but here we are.”

“Mm” was all Arthur said, smiling into his cup.

They became somewhat more clearheaded as the morning went on. In a rare deviation, Arthur opted to skip his morning run, and Eames joined him in the shower, wanting to make up for the mornings when he hadn’t.

“Why me?” Eames asked later on the sofa where he was lying on Arthur, adding hastily, “I mean, I know why I’d take myself on a romantic vacation, but why did you decide on taking me?”

Arthur looked at the ceiling. “I like you,” he finally admitted, looking absurdly youthful.

“You _like_ me? You do not. You can’t stand me,” Eames said, delighted, shifting so that he could look closely at Arthur’s face.

“Clearly I can stand you, since we’ve been here this long and no one’s shot anyone else.” Arthur met his gaze then, a glitter of amusement in his eyes.

“You’ve got a funny way of showing that you like me.”

“Oh, is fucking you and making you breakfast a funny way of showing it?”

“Well, put that way….” Eames scratched his jaw. “Am I more than just a fabulous shag to you then, Arthur?”

Arthur took his hand and kissed the back of it. “You could say that.”

Eames felt his face going pink. “Well. Well, Mr. First Dick,” Eames cleared his throat, “it so happens yours may be the only dick I’m interested in at this particular time.”

Arthur cleared his throat too, and smiled, fingers starting to gently stroke through Eames’ hair. “Well. Glad we cleared that up.”

“Sure, when our vacation’s almost over. Honestly, we’re grown men.” 

“We can stay here as long as we like. I own the place, remember?” Arthur scratched at Eames’ scalp, making Eames hum in pleasure.

“I suppose we might get tired of each other if we stay here too much longer.” Eames shifted a bit further down the sofa, settling in more comfortably.

“Guess we’ll see.” Arthur kissed the top of Eames’ head. “But… I think we can handle it.”

“Cheers,” Eames murmured with a smile, closing his eyes.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Liz and Julia for all your help!


End file.
